


2 bd, 2 ba, 791 sq ft, pets OK

by hellodeer



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Also - cleaning, Also!! - the apartment's POV, Angst, Anxiety, Depression, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, mention of suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2019-12-30 06:04:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18309680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellodeer/pseuds/hellodeer
Summary: Yuuri turns Viktor’s cold, neglected apartment into a home.





	2 bd, 2 ba, 791 sq ft, pets OK

Viktor wraps his favorite scarf around his neck, grabs his suitcases and walks out, Makkachin following behind. The door closes with a quiet, muffled thud. The key turns in the lock. The elevator comes up. It goes back down.

The apartment sits empty for months after that. It gathers dust and cobwebs and the sour, bad odor of a place that’s been closed for too long. In the summer it’s stuffy and stifling, the light never breaking through the heavy curtains. As the months change from July to September to December, the rooms grow colder, darker, and dustier.

Most of the plants die. The ones that don’t, survive thanks to Viktor’s crumpling old downstairs neighbor. Serafina Vaganova uses the spare key and waters the plants closest to the front door when she remembers, which isn’t often. Small flies and roaches slip through the cracks under the door and on the windows to circle around the dead violets and daisies. The pots accumulate old, dirty water where insects swim and drown until they dry.

It’s so quiet. The constant humming of the fridge, left on with little food inside, and the elevator that rarely stops on that floor are the only sounds that break the silence. When it rains, the water that hits the windows and the roof is loud and echoing.

Day and night blend together, week after week after week. The apartment remains empty, lonely, and utterly unloved, until Viktor walks in, a year after he walked out. He brings his suitcases inside, and then his dog, and then — someone new. 

“Welcome!” Viktor says cheerfully, spinning in a circle with his arms open. Makkachin runs inside the living room, sniffing at corners and sneezing.

Yuuri Katsuki scrunches up his nose the minute he sets foot in the apartment.

“It smells,” he says, not to be mean or ungrateful, but simply stating a fact, brain-to-mouth filter a little hazy after hours of trying and failing to fall asleep on a cramped plane.

It does smell of dead earth and unwashed sheets. Viktor smiles and kisses Yuuri’s head.

“We need to clean it,” Yuuri says, then sneezes twice.

Viktor grabs Yuuri’s hand and takes him to the bedroom. It’s the middle of the night in April, so he opens the curtains and the windows to let a nice, cool breeze waft inside. 

It’s like breathing for the first time after months. The new and fresh air circulates inside the room, hits the walls and the furniture, ventures to the living room through the open door. The moonlight shines bright, illuminating all the corners of the room. Already the apartment feels a little less suffocating, a little less drowned in shadows.

“Tomorrow,” Viktor agrees, as he gets in bed to snuggle behind Yuuri. Makkachin hops on to sleep at their intertwined feet.

The rest of the night is filled with quiet, steady breathing. Sheets rustle. The mattress squeaks. Makkachin whines, Viktor snores, and Yuuri coughs.

In the morning, the sun wakes Yuuri before Viktor. He squints, annoyed, and rolls out of bed to pee in the en suite bathroom. Then he makes his way to the living room, opening all the curtains and all the windows. Specks of dust shake off from the curtains and float in the morning air, clear in the sunlight. 

Yuuri sneezes so loud and for so long that Viktor jolts awake to find him in the kitchen, with half his head out the window.

“Sorry,” he says, voice thick and eyes watery. “It’s my allergies.”

Viktor sighs and rubs his own sleep-crusty eyes.

“You don’t need to apologize. I should have asked someone to clean before we got here.”

“Okay,” Yuuri replies.

“Okay.”

The kitchen’s silence is filled by an ambulance’s siren and children’s laughter from the school next door. Viktor and Yuuri stare at each other. The faucet lets out a droplet of water every few seconds. The counter Viktor leans against, arms crossed, is still dusty and stained from previous cooking failures.

Yuuri scratches his arm, looks down at his sock-clad feet on the tile. His stomach emits a loud, unexpected rumble. 

They both laugh, awkward.

“Let’s go out to eat,” Viktor says, reaching across the space between them to hold Yuuri’s hand softly. “There’s no food here.”

They take Makkachin with them. They leave the windows open, airing out the space, and while they are gone the cool spring wind flows through the apartment, from one room to the next, window to window. The sun rises higher in the sky, moves from the bedroom to the living room. It warms the unwashed sheets, the dead plants, and the dusty couch.

Viktor and Yuuri return a few hours later with a vacuum, an armful of cleaning products, and dog food. Yuuri washes Makkachin’s bowl, freeing it of cobwebs and dead insects. While he pours her some food, Viktor leaves the rest of their purchases inside the guest bedroom.

When Makkachin has food and water — some of it escapes from the bowl thanks to Yuuri’s clumsiness and the dog’s eagerness to drink, leaving the kitchen floor wet — Yuuri moves to the master bedroom, where he opens his suitcase and removes his skates. Viktor, who’s watching from the doorway as Yuuri grabs _his_ grey suitcase with great care, tilts his head to the side.

“You should hang your clothes in the closet,” he says, like it’s obvious but just now occurred to him. “Here.”

The closet door is next to the bathroom door. It’s a walk-in, with drawers and hangers and shelves, every inch of them filled with clothes, shoes, underwear and accessories.

“I thought you brought all your clothes to Japan?” Yuuri asks, more impressed than annoyed, eyeing the packed closet from a distance. Everything is covered in layers of dust and a very strong smell of perfume.

“I _did_ ,” says Viktor, blinking.

His solution is to take a handful of hangers, clean out his sock drawer, grab two shelves worth of shoes and throw them in the guest bedroom. He doesn’t let Yuuri see much of the room when he opens the door, but the little that’s visible is enough.

“What _is_ this?” Yuuri frowns, reaching around Viktor to open the door he’s just closed.

“Nothing. Nothing!”

It’s something. Mountains of clothes rest on top of the dirty, old sheets on the bed. A big chest of drawers sits under the window, dark brown and big and _ancient_ , so unlike the rest of the modern, cool apartment. There’s almost no empty space — piles of unopened boxes fill every corner of the room, some as tall as Yuuri and looking one breeze away from toppling over. Thousands of stuffed toys and plushies, some of them still inside their plastic cases, sit on every possible surface of the room, accumulated from years of competing and being the best.

The light, when Yuuri turns it on, is a harsh, ugly yellow that washes everything out. There’s dust and cobwebs everywhere. The window is closed and the curtain drawn. The air inside is still and dry, with the sour, dark energy of a place that is no more than a second thought.

“I ran out of storage space!” Viktor says, defensively. “I get a lot of free stuff and I feel — it’d be bad to throw it out.”

Yuuri turns to stare at him. Viktor looks miserable, with his arms crossed and shoulders hunched as he stands in the darkened doorway of the room. The unpleasant light frames him like a luminous being, an angel. Yuuri’s face softens and he smiles.

“I’m not judging,” he says, moving closer to lock his hands behind Viktor’s neck. Viktor rests his hands on Yuuri’s waist and gives him his most unimpressed look. “Okay, I’m judging a little.”

Viktor mumbles something in Russian. _I do my best with what I have._

“I know you do,” Yuuri says. He kisses the corner of Viktor’s mouth, feels his shaky breathing close to his skin. “But hey, we need to clean this room. Even if it means throwing away free stuff.”

Viktor sighs and whines for a couple of minutes, but in the end, they get three big cardboard boxes from Serafina Vaganova. They venture into the guest bedroom, zigzagging through the labyrinth of boxes and discarded gifts and dog toys. Yuuri throws open the curtains and the window, finally letting wind and sunlight through, allowing the room to breathe.

Everything is sorted: keep, donate, or toss. The latter boxes fill up much faster and fuller than the first. Viktor decides he only wants to keep a few designer clothes, perfumes and a really nice, expensive coffeemaker that Nespresso sent and he forgot about.

Yuuri changes the sheets while Viktor vacuums and dusts off the chest of drawers. With no clutter, the room turns out to be actually quite spacious and, by the time they’re done, feels fresh and breezy.

“Much better,” Yuuri says, surveying the new space with a smile on his lips.

Viktor orders them lunch. While they eat at the massive, steel kitchen island, Yuuri smiles sweetly.

“Well,” he says. “Since we’ve already started…”

Viktor sighs and whines into his gyudon, but he gets the mop, buckets and rags out of the supply closet in the guest bathroom. 

Yuuri starts in the living room. He collects the scattered plants, throwing out the dead ones and placing the barely alive cast-iron and snake plant on the sunniest window sill. Viktor says they should give up on the lilies, but Yuuri insists that there’s still hope for them and adds the pot to the small collection. Then, with practice and ease, he wipes all the windows and furniture, mops the floor, dusts the lamps. He sneezes through the whole process, up until he finishes placing the couch cushions in the sun too.

Viktor, awkwardly and with a lot of effort, cleans the master bedroom. It doesn’t help that Makkachin keeps running after him to bark at the vacuum. He sprays the window and the dog with some water, but instead of leaving him alone, she just circles his legs with more enthusiasm. Viktor navigates around that to change the sheets and wipe the huge, white bookshelf that takes most of the wall next to the door. He gets distracted flipping through _Les Misérables_ in French until Yuuri walks in to use the bathroom and pointedly clears his throat.

They do the kitchen together.

“So that’s where the washer is,” Yuuri says, watching Viktor load it with the dirty bedding. It’s next to the oven, so effortlessly modern and cool Yuuri almost didn’t notice it.

“What did you think this was?” Viktor asks. He’s sweating, crouched down in front of the washer with an armful of sheets and pillow covers.

Yuuri shrugs.

“A second dishwasher,” and, under Viktor’s disbelieving look: “You’re fancy enough to have two.”

Viktor throws out the small amount of food left in his fridge that’s gone bad - exactly two bananas and a carton of milk. Yuuri washes the dishes they used for lunch and then loads the dishwasher with the dusty plates and silverware that’ve been locked away. They mop the floor, scrub the counter and island, clean the stove and cabinets.

In the en suite bathroom, they wipe the mirror and the sink, scrub the floor and the bathtub, and Yuuri, bravely, unclogs the drains and the toilet.

“My hero,” Viktor says, and actually means it, watching as Yuuri uses his entire glove-covered arm to poke inside the toilet.

While Yuuri does the same in the guest bathroom, Viktor takes Makkachin outside. Night’s already fallen and the wind hisses outside, rattles the windows and curtains, so Yuuri sings to himself in Japanese while he puts the cleaning supplies away and cuts the dead leaves off the plants.

The whole apartment breathes - fresh and clean, better than brand new. The dust and cobwebs are almost all gone, the floors are shiny, the air cool and crisp. The lights are on and the moon shines through the glass too, shooting lovely beams into the room.

Viktor and Makkachin come back a little wet from the light rain that falls, and they sprinkle the inside of the apartment with water. Viktor feeds the dog while Yuuri closes all the windows, cutting off the cold, wet wind and the city noises.

They shower together before dinner. Viktor’s favorite soap, that he left out before going off to Japan, is all cracked and dry, so they open a new one. There’s only enough shampoo for one handful, and the choice is obvious: Viktor washes Yuuri’s hair thoroughly, with care, like the dark locks are beloved, which they are. They kiss lazily under the warm water spray, mouths and bodies slick and wet.

That night, they prepare their bags for the next day and fall asleep to the sound of rain hitting the windows.

A couple of months pass with the days blending together as one. It goes something like this:

The alarm rings early in the morning, usually before the sun is even out. Viktor always wakes up before Yuuri and takes Makkachin for her walk. The apartment is completely silent as Yuuri snuggles under the covers until Viktor comes back or the sun shines hot on his face, whichever comes first. Then they have a quiet, slow breakfast in the kitchen, grab their bags and leave. 

While they’re gone, Makkachin sleeps on the couch for most of the day. Sometimes there are loud noises outside or birds come perch on the building, and she runs to the window and barks at them. She plays with her toys in the living room or wanders around the kitchen, sniffs under the fridge, eats her food and drinks her water. The curtains are open when she’s home alone but the windows closed, so the air gets stuffy as the sun rises higher in the sky and heats the apartment. 

Viktor and Yuuri come home in the late afternoon, right around the time the moon’s coming out, and the first thing Yuuri does is open the windows to let fresh air come through. Sometimes he also brings new bedsheets, cushions and mugs. Viktor brings Makkachin new toys. After playing with her, Yuuri cares for the plants. He does manage to save the lilies, which look healthier and better as the days pass, and he just keeps buying new plants, every week, until it’s almost like a forest in the living room.

They both take the dog for her afternoon walk. The apartment is quiet and still during that half hour or so, with only the plants moving and breathing. When they come back, they all have dinner. After they eat, Yuuri Skypes his parents and sister, or they share the couch, Viktor reading a book and Yuuri on his laptop, or they watch something on Netflix, or they have sex, until it’s time to shower and sleep.

At least once a week, Yuri has dinner with them. Sometimes it’s Yuri and Mila, Yuri and Georgi, Yuri and Mila and Georgi. In the five years since Viktor bought the apartment, they had never visited before. When they come, the place becomes noisy and almost small, all of them taking as much space as they can. It’s something they excel at as competitive figure skaters and young people with big personalities — the apartment is full of Yuri’s angry and disrespectful tantrums, Mila’s scandalous laughter and mean jokes, Georgi’s overdramatic soul. They all speak fast, loud Russian that requires all of Yuuri’s concentration to keep up with — even when, to their collective surprise, he knows some of the language from the classes he took in college. When they’re around, Viktor turns a little bit into his old self, the pre-Yuuri one, whose smile was for the cameras and whose heart was locked away behind thick walls.

If they stay too late or have too much wine they end up sleeping in the guest bedroom and don’t leave until after breakfast the next morning.

Around June it starts to get hotter and hotter. The apartment, though airy and spacious, is hit hard by the morning sun every day, making the main bedroom a pool of heat and discomfort.

“This is my least favorite time of the year,” says Viktor, lying on the couch in shorts and a t-shirt, a fan very close to his face. Yuuri kisses his sweaty face and gets him a glass of water.

One day in mid-June, Yuuri comes home from the rink alone. He cares for the plants as usual. Takes the dog out as usual. Has his dinner as usual, and still Viktor isn’t back. The apartment is cold and quiet without him, save for Makkachin’s whines. Yuuri leaves the light on in the entryway before going to bed.

When he wakes up the next day he’s still alone, and when he comes back home in the afternoon too. He places a new pot of violets besides the blooming lilies and changes the lightbulb in the guest bedroom. He takes the dog out, he has dinner, he stands with Makkachin as she cries in front of the elevator door.

“I know,” he says, petting her fur.

He leaves the next day and she lies at the door. In the silence of the apartment, her whines are loud and clear. She stays there, barely moving, until the elevator comes up around noon. Makkachin stands and barks and jumps on Viktor as he comes inside, followed by Yuuri. He blinks slowly at her and pets her head once.

Makkachin circles their legs as Yuuri guides Viktor to the bedroom with a hand on the small of his back. Viktor collapses on the bed fully clothed, shoes still on. Yuuri removes them and exits the bedroom, leaving the door open. Viktor quietly cries himself to sleep and Makkachin licks his tears as they fall.

It’s a very cold night in the apartment. Yuuri wraps himself in two blankets and doesn’t close his eyes, just sits on the couch trying to count cracks on the ceiling, but there are none.

Viktor sleeps for a whole day. Yuuri stays awake and cares for the plants, feeds the dog and takes her outside, sweeps some accumulated dust in the living room and kitchen. He gathers all the razors and sharp objects from the en suite bathroom and moves them to one of the drawers in the guest bedroom. He also grabs Viktor’s skates and replaces both broken laces with new ones.

When Viktor finally wakes up, Yuuri is sitting next to him in bed, keeping watch.

“Hey,” Yuuri says. Viktor blinks for long seconds, eyes taking a while to focus. Then he looks at Yuuri, sighs, and ducks his head.

“I’m sorry,” he says, not looking Yuuri in the eye.

“You don’t need to apologize.”

“I didn’t want you to see this side of me,” he says. “I thought I was past it. After I found you, I thought I’d be… fixed.”

“I can’t fix you because you’re not broken,” Yuuri says, voice cracking. He sniffles. “It’s a hormonal imbalance.”

Viktor laughs a little, low and still sad. He moves closer and lies his head on Yuuri’s lap, and Yuuri strokes his fingers through his hair.

“I thought it’d be easier, to come back,” he sighs. “But I still feel like I need to prove something, like skating is the only thing I have.”

“It’s not,” Yuuri says.

“I know.”

Yuuri hums.

“It’s about breaking the bad habits, I think. Wouldn’t it be nice to go back to when skating was something you loved, and not a burden?”

“Yes, it would.”

Tentatively, Yuuri says “May you should see a sports therapist.”

Viktor is quiet for a couple of minutes. Yuuri continues to stroke his hair, and Makkachin pokes her head inside the bedroom to look at them. It’s like the whole apartment is holding its breath, waiting for something to break the silence. 

And then:

“Yakov has been saying that for years,” Viktor finally says. It’s muffled against Yuuri’s thigh, but audible enough. There’s something like wonder in his voice, like a question, a possibility.

“Maybe he has a point,” Yuuri says. “Skating is supposed to be fun, Vitya. It’s not worth it if it makes you feel this bad.”

“Okay,” he says, and falls asleep on Yuuri’s lap.

They go back to their routine after that, with one slight change: once a week, on Wednesdays, Viktor comes home later than Yuuri because of his therapy. Most days are fine and a lot like the ones before, but as the start of the season approaches, Viktor gets quieter and sleeps too much and Yuuri turns into a fidgety, insomniac mess. Sometimes they hold each other for hours in bed, and the room feels hot and suffocating. Sometimes they don’t touch at all, and the apartment is cold and uninviting. 

In September, a couple of weeks before his first competition of the year, Yuuri lies on the couch all day, not moving except to eat three entire bars of chocolate. He does sit up to talk to his parents and sister on the phone at night, but then just stares at the wall after hanging up. Viktor comes up behind him and wraps his arms around Yuuri’s body, resting his chin on Yuuri’s shoulder. Yuuri doesn’t seem to register it at all. Viktor hums a sweet, old Russian lullaby until Yuuri sighs.

“I don’t like this wall,” he says, and starts to cry. He closes his hands on Viktor’s arms and holds on to him like a drowning man finding a life jacket.

Sobs wreck his small frame and echo through the whole apartment. Makkachin barks at a pigeon outside, and a nice and cold breeze dries the tears on Yuuri’s face before they even have the chance to dangle off his chin.

“I’m not good enough,” he chokes out through the tears.

“You are, you are,” Viktor repeats over and over, kissing Yuuri’s wet cheek and his hair, his neck, any part of Yuuri that he can reach.

“And I really don’t like this wall.”

“Then let’s paint it.”

And they do. The white wall becomes green the next day, after some struggle with the rolling brushes and a good amount of paint ending up on their faces and Makkachin’s fur instead. After they’re done, they sit on the floor and admire their work.

“You know,” Viktor starts. “I used to think of this place as somewhere I slept in after practice and woke up in before practice. But now…”

He looks around, and Yuuri does too. The setting sun comes through the open windows, lighting up the living room with dim brightness. The couch cushions are on the floor and there are dirty dishes in the sink, a pile of unread books sitting on top of the microwave and a bunch of Makkachin’s toys scattered around. But the floor is free of dust and the windows are shiny. The new green wall pairs well with their many plants and gives the room a forest feel, cozy and warm. The unmade bed visible through the open bedroom door looks very inviting.

Viktor and Yuuri look at each other and smile.

“Now it feels like home,” Yuuri finishes.

Soon, the elevator goes gown as they leave for the first competition of the year.

A week later, the elevator comes up. The key turns in the locker, the door opens. They walk in.

**Author's Note:**

> this was written for issue 3 of the [yoi litmag](https://yoilitmag.tumblr.com)! the theme was "space" :)
> 
> also, thanks to @magicalyoyo for the beta job!


End file.
